Phallic and Fallopian: A Lover’s Tale

If you are not going to write big

poems about big things, then go to hell.

Horace Navarone (1921-1945)

It all started late one night at the Met

when the poets began to rub

each other’s backs.

There were telltale signs

of lovemaking everywhere:

sticky saucers with toenail

clippings, clumps of hair

which the cats carefully removed

and placed in each corner,

ripped pages from archaic

dictionaries, cellophane

tape and lots of tacks.

In the morning,

the curator ran to the director

to show him every messy detail.

The poets escaped, presumably,

through a broken window—

a blood track dribbled

to the floor.

The director wanted it tested—

he wanted each poet

found and tagged.

As various authorities arrived,

they noticed movement

in the sculpture garden:

one of the poets

could no longer hold its breath.
It was a heroic effort:

no longer feeling syllabic,

it tried to petrify.

They took it away for questions.

All it would say is

I’m feeling phallic and fallopian

at the same time. Pull my string.

When they did,

it said I love you mommy.

They reassigned the curator

to fiction, where he would unravel

narratives of the Left Behind series.

The director would go home

with the doll in his arms— his wife

made him sit down

to pee.